The Void Echoes
by Dreambender
Summary: Shepard is dead and Samantha Weaver is his replacement as the hero of the Alliance, but when her last mission is a mystery even to her, it becomes a race to find out the truth. OC story. Set during Shepard's 2 year absence.


I do not own Mass Effect or the universe. The only things I own are the original characters in this story. You know the drill. On to the story.

Mass Effect: The Void Echoes

Prologue: Welcome Home

The noise was deafening. Sharp, hard sounds emanated from the large drive core engines of the shuttles as they descended into orbit, hissing as they made their full stop, their thousands of passengers waiting eagerly by the observation windows. Peaking from behind, head-sized windows, they would wave at those waiting to greet them. It was a busy sight. A multitude of colors filed out of the hangars and alighted by the skycar rentals, almost like clockwork. The usual suspects were, of course, always present: the fast-paced business men, with no time to stop and chat, heading directly for the skycars which were already paid for; the romantic alliance soldiers on their first rotation back to civilization, crying upon seeing their loved ones changed from the image in their memories like some abrupt metamorphosis; the occasional krogan mercenary, all his business already written on his face and body language. Yes, they were all here. And he could see them all through yellow-goggled eyes.

Where was he, the volus wondered in the midst of that sea of races. Finding one salarian in all this mess was proving to be difficult, far more difficult than he had hoped. He wandered deeper into the river of exiting travelers, who did not seem to notice he was there. And he pushed past their hips with his small hands, but to no avail. It was futile and a mistake, he concluded. He would just wait and see and wait some more. But the salarian would show up eventually. He settled by a corner café, under a red and yellow umbrella, and ordered an odd human drink which was dark in color. He'd seen humans drinking them in the vids; he figured it would make him stand out less. A volus, sitting by a spaceport café with a news file in one hand and a coffee on his table, under a yellow and red umbrella. Maybe he hadn't thought it through. Probably a bad idea.

But before he could take back his order, the coffee had come, and he found himself not knowing what to do with it. He peered at it, quizzically. He had to admit that he was a bit curious as to how the damn beverage tasted. "Maybe one sip. No one will notice." He unhooked the beverage straw from his suit and dipped it in the cup. He watched the liquid rise up into his mouth.

"Bah!" he exclaimed. "How can humans drink such atrocities?" He was speaking to no one in particular, which is why when a reply came, he was quite surprised.

"I don't get it either. It speeds up metabolism, I believe. I've tried it myself. Didn't think it had any effect. Or maybe it's just because I'm salarian. You know, being jumpy bastards to begin with. Not that all salarians are bastards. We do come from eggs, after all. But that's really just beside the point. I'm Duma…Tolren. Duma Tolren is the whole name. Actually, it isn't, but you really wouldn't want to know my whole name. So you're the guy. The volus guy. Bem something. Or am I mistaken?"

The volus blinked once in that moment, then once more before realizing what had happened. "Oh yes," deep breathe. "I'm Bem Kathas" He hopped to his feet to get the salarian's luggage, extending his hands.

The salarian looked over at the volus. If he had an eyebrow, it would have been raised. "Okay.." he said. He plopped his bag onto Bem's hands. Unsurprisingly, Bem fell backwards onto his behind and sat dumbfounded on the floor. "It's heavier than it looks. I think I'll carry it." He took his bag back and helped the volus to his feet.

"Yes.." another deep breathe. "I think that would work better."

The salarian was tall, he observed, tall even by salarian standards, though his frail form held little to be envied. He had bluish gray skin that was drawn tightly around his cartilage skeleton and an elongated head that was hollowed out by his eyes, which were an empty white-blue. They were like twin blue suns in the muted light of the Illium spaceport. Bem had begun to feel disquieted now. He knew what this Duma had done for a living and he did not care much to ask, nor was he paid to ask, so silently, he lead his companion into a secluded corridor on the far side of the deck, lined with neon purple lights. On the end of it, the sky car he had rented awaited. The salarian trailing behind him, an uneasy feeling grew inside Bem. He could feel those dead eyes staring at the back of his nape as they walked. And in the silence, only their lonesome steps being heard, there was no solace. Should he speak about something, he began to wonder. On one hand, he could finish this assignment easy, without any hiccups, but this awkward standstill with a stranger he'd just met was not something he was used to.

To a certain fashion, Bem Kathos favored himself to be a talkative man, to better understand those around him, he supposed. It was good for business, after all. And it was in the nature of businessmen to speak even when not spoken to. If ever you met a volus who was good at his trade, you'd understand. However, the situation demanded a different approach. This was not his line of work, these were not his type of people, and this was not a job he did often if ever. If he were to look back at the request of his employer, he might have been able to convince himself that this was as simple as picking someone up from the spaceport. All he had to do really was drive. But there was a catch. There is always a catch. And the catch was to not speak to the salarian, not if you didn't want to get involved.

They reached the end of the tunnel, and he gestured for the luggage to be thrown in the back of the vehicle amongst the high piles of bootlegged Shepard Virtual Intelligences. Bem and Duma, the stranger salarian, hopped into the driver and passenger seats respectively. The volus started up the engine with a couple of clicks on the dashboard, and the machine hummed to life.

"Who do you think would win? Shepard or Blasto?" Duma said with his eyes looking out the window at the tall hive skyscrapers of Illium. The large orbs in his head twitched as they swooshed past the oval towers and the glass buildings, blinking remarkably at the purple hues and the regal oranges of the vast expanse of the skyline. The last dying rays of light bathed the inhabitants of Nos Astra, and in some seemingly rehearsed way, the light shimmered and shivered and warped in color like a kaleidoscope.

Bem had no idea how to respond. He must admit that the idea of the salarian starting a conversation had been a possibility in his mind, yet this question was not one of the expected openings. "I..I'm sorry?"

"Sorry. Strange question, but I saw the movie. Blasto the jellyfish, I mean. While I was at the Citadel. And it was surprisingly a very good movie. Didn't really expect much from it, considering the trailer. A lot of his lines were just rip-offs of some other movie. I can't remember the title exactly. Dirty Harold? Something likethat. But while I was watching it, I kept thinking that is one badass Spectre. Then I saw the VI's you had in the back, and the question just popped. Does that ever happen to you?"

Bem was still at a loss for words. He contemplated the right response. Something badass, perhaps? He'd say something only a renegade would say or maybe he'd act nonchalant about the question, answer with a quick joke. After an awkward ten seconds, he settled with simply answering respectfully, and he rolled his eyes at himself.

"Well, Commander Shepard is a real person, so he'd win."

"Yes, obviously, but let's say they both had the advantage of being real people. And being alive." He suddenly remembered the reports of the Commander dying a few months back. "Commander Shepard the living versus Blasto the jellyfish. Let's say they were in a cage or a decagon or whatever they fight in these days."

Bem thought for a moment. He placed a hand under his chin and rubbed it, all the while looking like a strange cat with wide whiskers.

"Then perhaps" he began to explain. "the commander would still win. Jellies aren't much good for anything."

They dove into oncoming traffic and followed a thin river of flashing headlights down to the market district of Nos Astra. All around them, the sound of music pulsated. Flowers decorated the high balconies: virgin whites and wild oranges and regal purples. A giant face of an Asari reporter was cast on one of the Dantius towers' walls, inviting everyone to the coming festival, which was only a few days away.

"I suppose they aren't." Duma continued. For some strange reason Bem could not understand, his companion could not let the matter to rest. "I really wish it was a better fight."

The volus thought for a moment, then stepped forward with an idea of his own. "If they were in water, it could be a match worth watching. I think Blasto would win then, but, I guess, it's really all a matter of perspective. The stories about the human Commander border on the silly, after all. They say when he shoots the ground of a planet, a krogan dies on the other side. Such insanity, but so is a hanar spectre." He said as they floated down lightly in front of Thessia's Best. It was this fancy new restaurant Bem's boss had said he had to try. Absolutely had to. That's how she had said it. "You absolutely have to try it when you pick up our friend, the salarian. Ask for the room in the back and give them my name. They'll know what to give you."

They shut the engine, got out, and in the parking lot, Bem asked "Why were you asking anyway? It seemed so important."

At this, Duma laughed. His large eyes minimized to the shape of two straight lines. They almost weren't eyes at all with the way they looked. "I just wanted to see if you'd answer my questions. I know they're quite preposterous."

"So it was a test?"

"A test?"

"You said you wanted to see my reaction."

Duma peered up at the sky as if gathering the words from a nearby cloud. "Well, yeah. People in this line of work are usually so serious. I wanted to see if you'd just go along with it."

"So it was a test."

"Absolutely not. Just stupid conversation." Duma explained.

Bem was skeptical. This was truly the strangest salarian he'd ever met. Or maybe they were all like that. He realized he actually didn't know many salarians to begin with.

"If it was a test though" Duma said laughing. "you'd have passed."

The city glowed arrogantly to the east the night she ambled up those narrow steps and found herself on the roof of her apartment building. Cradling a bottle in one hand, she walked in a crooked line to the edge and hung her head over the railings.

The lights caught the corner of her eye. And she squinted her dry eyes in their direction, the image of them blurry in her head. She took a swig of the bottle. The warm liquid poured down the walls of her insides slowly like it was viscous. It was not a pleasant feeling. Then she sat or fell—whichever way you want to call it—and crossed her legs. It would be a long night.

For all the manic sounds that echoed from the city, she found peace, a true silence that engulfed her. And she began to notice the world in painstaking detail. Beyond the glow of the city, was the glow of the stars in the sky. They were faint now like the dying of an old light bulb, and they flickered magnificently on that purple canvas. Beyond the sounds of the sky cars, zooming and swishing and flying past, she heard the sound of distant rumbling. It could not have been close. The rains would probably not reach the city, but she heard them nonetheless. They rolled in her head along with the liquor and they grew, grew in size and magnitude, in gravitas until they swelled, and she could feel them pushing against the walls of her cranium. Her temples throbbed violently. And she did the only thing she could do: she took the bottle of Jack Daniels by its neck and tipped it over her mouth.

And then she lay on her back, and she stayed there until the first rays of morning light touched the side of her cheek gently. She felt the warmth of it spread all over her, and it was a unique warmth that differed from that of the drink.

"Sam" She heard a voice call from behind her. She did not move. Her body would not allow her to. She grunted in response. Then she felt someone take her hand, and immediately she knew who it was.

She smiled as best she could in his direction, yet her eyes stayed closed. This was the comfort she had with him. No matter what happened, she knew who this was.

"What the hell are you doing up here?" he said as he helped her up to her feet.

"Trying to remember." Her voice faded even as she said the last syllables.

He bent her over the rails, rubbing her back. He pried the bottle from her stiff fingers. "Remember what?" he said.

"What happened out there in the traverse. With the batarians. I don't remember anything. They tell me I'm a hero. They say I killed them all, but then why can't I remember?" Her stomach lurched, and she felt a wave rise from her pit. She held it back, even as her eyes watered. She didn't want him to see her like this. "I'm a hero, but I don't remember." For the first time that morning, she opened her moist eyes, and she turned to him. She saw him there, framed in yellow rays. He looked half disgusted at her state and half concerned.

He smiled at her. "It gets worse," he said. Her head finally stopped swirling, and she gave him a quizzical look.

"Worse?" Confusion struck her. There was only uncertainty in her next response. "How worse?"

"They're gonna make you Commander Shepard's replacement, Sam. The letter just got in. You're the newest candidate as the next human spectre." She couldn't find the words. She didn't know how to respond. It was all too quick, all too soon and at a time when she felt the most vulnerable.

"How?" were the only words she could muster.

"Damn it, Sam. Don't ask how. You've been a good soldier all your life. It's been coming to you." He shook her by her shoulders with auburn eyes looking deeply into hers. "In a few minutes, your father is going to come up those steps and tell you the good news, and you're gonna take it like a soldier!"

She managed a half-hearted smile. But in truth, she couldn't see it. She couldn't see herself at the ceremony. She couldn't place herself in that spot in the center of the galaxy, where everything hangs on a choice, her choice. This was a world she knew nothing about. All her life, she looked down at the sights of a rifle. It was always just about the mission and nothing more. But to be asked to be an extension of something greater, to represent more than herself was beyond her. It was a grand gesture, one she appreciated, yet the picture didn't fit. In truth nothing could make it fit.

"I have to go," he said as he slid down a side fire escape. He barely said goodbye.

"What's the rush?" she said in a voice that would carry, hoping that its sound would catch up to him.

There was no reply. He was gone, just like the stars and the distant rumbling and the purple hues of the sky. A few minutes later, her father came up to the roof as expected and delivered her the news. She smiled like it was a surprise, but the initial shock had gone. Now, the situation had settled in her mind, and it was there to stay. And all her fears echoed into the coming days.

The sirens were behind him, and with each step, they seemed to lag by a hundred miles. Liam's heart pounded heavily in his chest. He could almost feel them burst. But he would never trade any of this in. This is what he lived for, he knew as he leapt from one rooftop to another.

He could already read the headline for tomorrow's paper. "Bent Cop Found at Scene of the Crime" And a smile formed on his lips that he couldn't control. In the morning, everything would be better. He'd be back on the force, back in his rightful place. But the job wouldn't be done. There were still others. Those who were harder to catch, but he'd get to them eventually. One by one, he would: that fat slob Ramirez, the crooked rookie Sloan, and most of all, he'd get Tarkovsky. Tarkovsky would be the prize.

He imagined all the things he'd do. He could already feel the stickiness on his fingers. The headline wouldn't be about an arrest. It would be about a murder, that much he knew. And as he contemplated all the possibilities, two words emerged from the bowels of his mind: welcome home.

Please read and review. Thanks.

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